


It's About That Time

by sugarmole



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Masturbation, NSFW, Quadrant Confusion, Quadrant Vacillation, davekat - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 16:06:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6086128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarmole/pseuds/sugarmole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ok so the tag was obligatory but i swear its not about the fact that karkat vantas is jacking it to his best friend. i mean it is. but its mostly about his feelings about it not actually about explicit descriptions of the act... uh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's About That Time

It’s about that time. 

Your eyes burn from the glare of your crabtop and your lids are heavy. You’re holding them slightly less wide open than usual. You’re scrolling through files in your computer in an effort to find SOMETHING productive to do on this hurtling shitrock you call a home nowadays. It’s been almost a sweep since it startled barreling toward wherever with you and your friends aboard, and since then you’ve been doing precisely nothing else besides 100% premium grade-A loafing. 

And it’s that time again.

You yawn, and stretch your back, arching to relieve the stiffness you feel from hunching over all day. You were messaging your moirail for a few hours until he stopped responding, the usual game of “how long will it take for Dave to fall asleep tonight” ending at its usual time cap. You don’t mind that he passes out in the middle of chats at night, because he has to sleep sometimes, or at least way more often than you do, even if you were on a healthy sleep schedule. The bags under your eyes are crusty. You rub them. A message on trollian pops up from your future self, but you really don’t have the energy for that nonsense right now.

It’s time, your thinkpan nags you. You try to ignore it, but it just will not let it go. You sigh, and sitting cross-legged, you let a hand slip into your sweatpants, the other still scrolling through pointless jpegs you have accumulated. Another pinch from your hormones telling you what the fuck to do and absent mindedly, you start kneading the space between your legs. Yeah, it’s just kind of something you have to do every once in awhile. It’s annoying and weird, you know, but biology is what it is, you guess. 

You laugh a little grainy laugh as you scroll past a stupid drawing of some earth creature with an excessive neck that Dave sent you earlier today. There’s a few comics and also a weird sketchy drawing of a lizard like man thing that you guess is pretty okay.

A dull flare lights up for a second in your stomach, reminding you to focus on the task at hand. You groan, resenting that you have to waste your time doing this. You can basically liken it to taking a shit, except as if you needed to gingerly coax your asshole until it decided it was ready. 

You shake your head at yourself and fall onto your back, closing your eyes for focus, trying to get it over with as soon as you can manage.

Your thoughts often drift when you do this, in a bout of what you guess is escapism. You’ve always had a sort of difficulty with this kind of thing since you realized you needed to start doing it, and it’s so easy to dissociate. It’s like your mind and your body are separate for a while, your hands doing this weird chore while you get some time to think to yourself.

Your mind wanders first to your worries about your ex-palemate, who you still consider your friend even if he did borderline abandon you half a sweep ago, but you quickly digress, thinking about mundane pictures like meteor-scapes you’ve familiarized, dream bubble imagery, and the vast darkness outside that blazes past you every second. You think about all the weird human bullshit you’ve come to accept as normal over the past sweep. You think about Alternia, about the game, and about your friends, as your hands mechanically dawdle away at your nook. 

You remind yourself to not get any fucking ideas. Your mullings about your friends while fondling yourself have always remained completely separate activities. You still have to affirm this sometimes, because if anyone ever knew, you’d have no way to defend yourself. You’d be caught red handed (you shudder at the idea that you just made an unintentional and thoroughly idiotic pun). Sometimes you degrade yourself for things you know aren’t even true, but something so false like having the nerve to jack off to thoughts of your friends has never been one, and you’ve put your foot down about this. You are not that guy.

You let your head fall back into memories of what you did today instead, which mostly consisted of reading, and drawing with Dave in the common room.

You two like to draw together, and a lot of the pictures you have in this particular folder still open on your crabtop screen are drawings he sent you through file transfers. Today he joked about illustrating the stories that he unfortunately now knows you write in private, and you’re starting to consider whether or not you should let him. You remember a particular moment where he seemed really focused on a drawing of a face, but quickly turned it into something ridiculous after realizing you were watching from over his shoulder. You really shouldn’t breath so hard when you’re focusing on something but you really just wanted to watch. Then again, you really don’t know why he’s so afraid to actually try at things, because you know he likes them. You think about how he smirks to himself when he draws something funny, and juxtapose it in your mind to that concentrated, neutral face he was making when laying out that drawing. 

There’s a sudden zap that shoots up from where your hand is working to your abdomen and it almost startles you. You shove aside all thoughts of your moirail and focusing on mimicking your exact movements again to recreate that nice feeling, but you can’t isolate it, as usual. At least you feel a little closer to being done with it. You close your eyes again, resuming your nice, strictly pale thoughts about Dave.

He’s been bored out of his mind just like you, but you can tell when he’s found those moments of interest. You know the face, the way his cheeks are relaxed, his lips fuller. They’re released from that perpetual flex where he pulls his mouth into this stiff (but not quite tight) position, like he’s ready to catch himself in some safety net should something embarrassing slip out of it. You think about how his shades rest on his cheekbones just right and how you can sometimes see his eyes from behind the sides of them, something you admittedly probably peek at too much. You think about the times he has taken them off around you, and how his eyebrows curve over his brownbone, the hair dark there, not like his pasty muffinhead. And you slide back down over his eyelids, and his lashes, to his lips again. He’s relaxed, and concentrating, and comfortable, comfortable with you. His lips look so nice like that.

You freeze up when a nice soft wave washes over your lower half and you realize what you’re doing. You sort of stare up at the ceiling, hand on your crotch, but you just can’t get the image of Dave’s face out of your head. His lips, and jaw, and collarbone…

Another wave as your hand picks up action again. Maybe this isn’t so bad of you to do. You are admittedly almost maybe sort of enjoying yourself? Part of you insists that your bulge that’s threatening to emerge is only doing so because of your particularly well executed circling patterns tonight. The other part just wants to think about Dave some more. You almost let yourself,

But he’s not your matesprit. Thoughts like this would be normal if you’d chosen to act on that weird flicker of flushed feelings that you mistook for some sort of vacillating a few perigees back but you quickly and promptly resolved that issue with yourself; A brief, orderly conducted business meeting between you and your literal self proudly decided in record time that you, &quot, just wanted pale cuddles, &quot. So in honor of the men that took internal charge that day, you wipe all thoughts of Dave’s really nice lips away from your thinkpan. We get shit done here, you think.

There’s another 10 or 15 minutes of soulless circles and vertical motions until your nook’s edges are starting to get sore, and your bulge has spitefully retreated back from whence it never came. You roll over, aggravated, and absolve to quit it, and try again later.

You drift off into that weird half sleep thing you do sometimes when you haven’t slept in a few days to recharge. You’re thinking about Dave again, but this time, very pure, and very pale thoughts. In your vivid thinkpan theatre he strokes your hair and the soft leathery parts around your horns as you replay a human romcom as best as you can in your head (you have literally almost memorized it at this point because it’s your favorite one). He rubs your back and scritches at the grainy skin there, massaging and kneading. You let all your troubles fall away, your back un-hunched, your teeth unclenched, and your bulge un-nooked.

And just what the fuck do you think you’re even doing right now.

You’re doing it again! You’re jacking it to your moirail! You’re jacking it to shooshes and paps for troll-christ’s sake! Your free hand shoots up to your hair and pulls hard enough to make you mad at yourself. You kick your legs, rolling onto your back again as you groan in aggravation. Why is this so hard?? Your bulge stands up inside your sweatpants like the piece of shit fucklord that it is, taunting you. You wait, and wait, and the seconds feel like sweeps, and it just, will not, go back, inside.

Defiantly, or at least you think defiantly, you grab it again and start pumping it. You apologize to yourself in your head for your vocabulary; You have been reading way too many trashy Alternian romances. It’s working, you think, and the victory over your stupid-piece-of-shit fuckstick is enough to stifle your thoughts about Dave, until, well, you start thinking about Dave again. You start rationalizing to yourself while your hand works away that you’ve only ever seen him without a shirt one time, and even then it was brief. You hardly even remember the way his torso was littered with scars (but not grubscars), his skin still that strange warm color, the two dark spots on his pectorals, the way his back bent forward when he pulled his shirt over his head, the vertebrae on his spine sticking out just enough to seem alien, the way his body screamed for you to wrap your arms around him because of how skinny and gangly and fragile he seemed this way, his odd little crevice in the center of his stomach, and the strangely inviting trail of wiry, sunny little hairs that led down to god fucking dammit.

What the fuck is wrong with you. What the fuck is wrong with you. What the fuck is wrong with you??

You’re a fucking mess, you resolve, beads of sweat forming on your forehead. You arch your back just a tiny bit as the strokes you make on your bulge send little trails of fire down to your toes. In a last ditch effort to end the suffering, and since you’re already going to hell, you take a risk and picture Dave’s bulge-- it’s red, bright red, and it looks perfectly coupled beside your own. It comforts you to picture it, because you’re a complete shithead, you figure, as the fire spreads into your chest.

You feel it now, bubbling inside, and you want to regret, but you can’t get yourself to regret Dave. You really, really don’t regret Dave. You think about his hands pressing into your back, secure and warm, about his chest against yours, and about his voice saying soft, genuine things into your ear. You also think about things that aren’t quite as ridiculous but not totally impossible, like the way you feel about him, and about how it’s confused you since day one, but about how it feels like wings fluttering around in your body, about how it consumes you, and about how you hate to admit that you don’t have as much of a lock on your feelings as you like to parade around him like, but these thoughts don’t distract you from how great your body feels right now. 

You realize, a second too late, that you’ve forgotten a bucket.

Staring up at the ceiling, your head swims, and your eyes are so fucking wide it burns. The good feelings leave trap-door style and your stomach follows with them. Your sweatpants are soaked in your own shame slime. In your chest theres a feeling of guilt, distress and panic ballooning up as you fully accept what you’ve just done, the trust that you’ve just betrayed. You’re disgusting. You’re disgusting.

You roll over and type with one hand, “FUCK YOU.” into the trollian chat box addressed to your past self about 35 minutes ago before hurling yourself off the floor and into your bathroom to vomit and subsequently clean yourself off.

You refrain from having thoughts about your moirail for the rest of the night, and also from seeing him for the next few days that follow.

**Author's Note:**

> i am so sorry


End file.
